If you go in the library, you’ll find it there,
The lamp by the window by the book by the stair.
And out that pane and up that tree,
That’s where you’ll be finding me.

Late at night the butler stirred,
Guilt was strung from the cries he’d heard.
The screams of pain spat from my tongue,
As my neck he fervently rung.

My body’ll fall from that tree’s grip,
Blood burst out from the hole in my hip.
Neighbours will look out and gaze and shriek,
As they stare at this thing. This freak.

He made me breakfast the very next morning,
To act shocked at the man who’d had no warning.
For when the eggs and the toast and the bangers were cold,
The police were being sucked into the story he’d told.

When my body is dragged across our lawn,
The suspect’s picture will already be drawn.
And your face will glare up at those men’s eyes,
As your hands in cuffs become their dream and their prize.

Now in court, you plead your case,
As my house staff leaves without a trace.
"It was the Butler!” you shout and you swear,
"With the lamp by the window by the book by the stair!”